


Snapshots of a Life Shared

by AetherSeer



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: If Nicke’s honest with himself, this is nothing like what he had pictured his life to be. But if he's being honest, he'd never trade this life for anything.





	Snapshots of a Life Shared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pr_scatterbrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/gifts).



> I wrote this for pr_scatterbrain for Poly Hockey Exchange 2019. I hope you enjoy this little gift.

If Nicke’s honest with himself, this is nothing like what he had pictured his life to be. This, of course, being the pair of snoring Russians currently draped over his hip, starfished across his bed, limbs akimbo and sheets haphazardly covering not much of anything.

From this angle, Nicke has a great view of his scrawling handwriting where it curves over and around Sasha’s hipbone. He also has a fantastic view of the older man’s ass. Nicke gives up on trying to extract himself from the pile. He’ll just sleep with the lamp on tonight, securely weighted down by warm bodies.

The last thing Nicke sees before he closes his eyes are the matching-not matching signatures dancing over his arms in the lamplight.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t known, is the thing. Not right away. Oh, Nicke’d been drawn like a moth to the flame that is Alexander Ovechkin, but he hadn’t been prepared for anything more than the customary one-time greeting of a student-athlete to a quiet photographer looking for opportunities to broaden his portfolio.

He hadn’t expected the quiet humor of Alex’s perpetual shadow and suitemate, nor the interest Alex had taken in striking ridiculous poses for the camera.

And he certainly hadn’t expected the two of them to flip to script, steal his camera, and try to take photos of _Nicke._

Which leads to where they are now, Nicke sprawled over the men’s hockey captain’s bed, a laughing Alex half-pinned beneath him as Sasha clicks away with Nicke’s expensive camera, which is _not set_ for shoots under fluorescent lighting, giggling madly.

Nicke yelps when thick fingers jab him in the ribs, rolling away and curling in on himself. He hopes—Alex’s face fair _lights up_ with that discovery and Nicke groans internally. That’s not a good si _-IGN!_

“St-t-t-t-t-o-o-o-o-op! Stop! Please!” Nicke begs, fighting for breath between giggles. Alex’s assault on Nicke’s ribs is relentless, though, finding Nicke’s soft spots with unerring aim just like his shots find the back of the net. Nicke kicks out, legs caught and tucked beneath Alex’s weight, useless in Nicke’s defense.

Just when Nicke’s sure he can’t take any more, Alex is rolling off of him, fighting giggles of his own as Sasha’s clever fingers go to work. Nicke’s chest heaves, sucking in air as his body twitches its way to calm again. The bed shakes beneath him.

He rolls his head to the side, glancing past the pile of pillows and sheets now dumped on the floor, to where Sasha had set down his camera. The black plastic and glass gleams back at him contentedly. 

Nicke catches his breath and sits up, avoiding a flailing foot from the tangle of Russian, and reaches out for his camera. It settles into his hands and he automatically checks the settings. After adjusting for the lighting and the closed-in space, Nicke points the lens at the bed—and gets a closeup of two eager, smiling faces, turned toward him like flowers reaching to the sun.

_Click._

Sasha ruins the moment with another elbow to Alex’s ribcage, and the tussle is back on.

 

* * *

 

Nicke shivers, checks his lens and settings, adjusts his scope again. His coffee beckons, steaming in the cold air. Nicke takes a sip, letting his near-frozen fingers warm against the heated paper. The coffee burns going down, still on the too-hot side of drinkable. But it’s not like much else is going to keep Nicke warm through this travesty of an American football game.

The other team kicks off for the fourth time, and Nicke raises his camera again, angling for the best action shots. Unfortunately, the best he’s likely to get is of his team falling down on the job.

 

At halftime, Nicke’s editor texts him asking for crowd shots during the third quarter instead of game shots. With the score sitting at 35-0, Nicke can’t help but agree there’s better shots for the paper.

His coffee’s nearly gone, so Nicke swallows the last of it, dropping the cup in the bin as he moves toward the crowd. The cheerleading squad is doing its best to rally, but there are already a few empty spots where students had given up and left.

Nicke angles his lens up and scans the crowd through the scope, looking for …

A pair of girls huddled under a blanket, focused on the field. _Click._ A closeup on the sign they have propped in front of them, cheering on who Nicke assumes is either a boyfriend or a brother. _Click._  

A shot of the cheerleading squad gearing up for a lift. _Click._ Another of the girl spinning midair. _Click._ Another of the successful catch, and of the pompoms in motion. _Click._

A familiar gap-toothed grin and wild black hair, arm slung around Sasha’s shoulders as the two duck their heads together for a shared whisper. _Click._ A wild wave as Nicke is spotted, blue and hazel eyes looking straight at the camera. _Click._  

Nicke doesn’t let himself focus on any area for too long, trying to catch as many moments as he can, but he does admittedly swing his lens back to where Alex and Sasha sit contentedly tangled up together in the stands more than once.

 

* * *

 

The buzzing of the tattoo gun is a distant irritation set against the burning sensation on the thin, sensitive skin of Nicke’s forearm. Nicke grits his teeth and bears it, his other hand clasped tightly between Sasha’s big palms. Sasha’s thumb strokes over Nicke’s white knuckles, voice murmuring endearments in low, soothing Russian.

“Did you just call me a baby duck?” Nicke grits out, incredulous.

Sasha’s all innocence when Nicke turns his head away from the tattoo artist, glaring indignantly at his lover. “Course not,” Sasha says. “Call you baby goose. Grow up fierce and scary, but all fluff when little.”

Nicke blinks at him. Sasha brings their hands to his lips and presses a kiss to Nicke’s palm. Nicke almost forgets about the tattoo gun, until the buzzing comes to an abrupt stop. Latex-covered fingers wipe away the blood and extra ink, quickly wrapping the limb in cellophane.

“You remember the care instructions?” Brooks asks.

Nicke nods.

“Okay. I’m going to go over them again, just to make sure. Semin, you’re in charge of making sure he follows them, because he’s going to do the same for you after your appointment.”

Nicke listens to Brooks with half his attention, the rest still caught on the soft smile playing at the corner of Sasha’s mouth. Nicke wants to bite it, kiss it. Wants to taste the laughter amid the mint of Sasha’s chewing gum. And okay, Nicke might be a little high on endorphins right now if he’s fantasizing in the middle of Brooks’ tattoo shop.

 

Nicke spends more than a few minutes on the car ride home twisting his arm back and forth to see the Cyrillic letters stark against his reddened skin. He frowns when his phone camera catches the reflection off the cellophane rather than what’s beneath, angling for a better view. _Click._ He catches Sasha watching at a red light, that same smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” Nicke snaps.

“He’ll like it,” Sasha says simply. He sweeps a possessive glance over Nicke’s other arm, at the neat scrawl wrapping around the delicate bone of Nicke’s wrist up to mid-forearm. “I know I do.”

 

* * *

 

Nicke’s never regretted agreeing to cover a Greek event more in his life. Kappa Pi Sigma’s annual barbecue seemed like a good opportunity to get a number of decent photos for the Greek life page in the yearbook, but it’s more like a drunken fiasco by the time Nicke makes an appearance at nine.

_Nine o’clock and everyone’s already drunk._

Nicke snaps a quick photo of some of the decorations strung up between the Greek houses—whoever had gone to the trouble of making overhead decorations had actually done a really good job—and searches for fairly innocuous and non-incriminating photo opportunities. _Click._

 _Nicke’s_ not going to be the one portraying underage drinking as a campus activity for whoever might actually look through the yearbook in future years.

A heavy arm drapes around his shoulders, beer-scented breath wafting into his face. Nicke recoils.

Alex Ovechkin looks sheepish, for all a giant hockey player can look sheepish. “Sorry, didn’t introduce. Alex. We meet earlier in the year?”

Nicke eyes him suspiciously. He remembers. “You and your friend doused me in water.” _You almost fried my camera,_ he doesn’t say. If the guilty glance Ovechkin darts toward said camera, clutched protectively to Nicke’s chest, says anything, Ovechkin remembers all too well.

“Never did say sorry for that,” the older boy finally says. “Sorry.”

Nicke actually does believe him, and it’s not _just_ the apologetic, somewhat drunken glance from beneath dark shaggy bangs that convinces him. “Okay,” Nicke finally says.

Apology accepted, Ovechkin brightens up again and just about bounces in place. “Never see you at parties before. You need a drink?”

Nicke holds up his camera. “Just photos, for the paper and yearbook.”

Ovechkin just about dazzles at him, and Nicke snaps a photo on instinct. _Click._ It might turn out, but he thinks it probably won’t be worth editing. “What kind of photos?”

Nicke glances around, rueful. “Something less … drunk.” Which seems to be a taller order than expected, especially now that more Kappas are bringing out another keg and a megaphone. Nicke wants no part of that.

He’s caught off-guard when a hand tucks itself at his elbow and tugs. “This way.”

Nicke follows Ovechkin’s guiding hand—his very large, warm hand, fingers wrapped around Nicke’s bicep—into one of the frat houses and up the stairs to what looks to be a bedroom, repurposed into a lounge. Four or five guys crowd around the big-screen TV, shouting at what looks to be Mario Kart; another pair talking quietly on one of the couches.

“Better?” Ovechkin asks.

Nicke surveys the room. The thumping bass from the party is muffled by walls and doors, and the threatening headache begins to recede. “Yes, how—?”

Ovechkin just grins at him and flops over and on top of the two boys on the couch, narrowly avoiding knocking over a stack of beer cans on the coffee table.

Nicke catches Ovechkin’s contented grin as Semin automatically cards a hand through messy black hair, Ovechkin’s head resting solidly in his lap. The other boy gives Nicke a wide grin and pats Ovechkin’s hip. “Welcome to Kappa Pi, I’m Mike. I take it you know O and Sema.” _Click._

The boys around the TV let out a synchronized chorus of groans in the midst of a whoop, presumably from the winner of the race. Nicke catches the ensuing dogpile on camera. _Click._

He glances around the quieter chaos, shielded from the wider ruckus, and then glances back at Ovechkin, who’s curling his big body into Semin’s lap as best he can. _Click._

 

* * *

 

Alex has never seen the Raleigh apartment, the one Sasha and Nicke found late on a Sunday afternoon during their two-day window in Raleigh between a Friday meeting with Sasha’s graduate program and Nicke’s interview at the _News & Observer _ on Monday.

Now, as Alex steps through the door for the first time, Nicke’s never been more aware of that fact. Alex has barely dropped his backpack to the floor before he’s grabbing Sasha and burying his face in Sasha’s shoulder. Nicke shoves Alex’s bags to the side with a foot before crowding up against them both, wrapping his arms around as much of his Russians as he can. He can feel Alex’s shuddering breaths, can hear Alex choking down tears as months of stress finally find relief.

Alex’s sobs turn to gasping breaths, turn to him scrubbing at his eyes as Sasha and Nicke shuffle him down the hallway to the bedroom. They get his shoes and jacket off and roll him beneath the sheets before sandwiching him between them. “Shh,” Nicke murmurs when Alex tries to protest. “Nap, and then we’ll talk.”

 

Nicke wakes up to Sasha’s snoring, which isn’t that unusual an occurrence at this point, but no Alex. He rolls out of bed, pausing to resettle the blanket over Sasha’s shoulders, and pads out to the main room.

Nicke leans against the doorframe, watching Alex take in the apartment for the first time. Nicke tries to do the same, look at the rooms that had become home over the last few months through another’s eyes.

Alex pauses over the inset shelves, tracing the glass bottles of his own treasured Coke bottle and memorabilia collection. “You didn’t throw them away,” Alex said softly.

“Why would we do that when you were coming back?” Nicke responds sardonically, trying not to be too overwhelmed by Alex’s emotions. “This is your home, too.”

 

* * *

 

Very few of Nicke’s photos actually make it to publication, but he thinks this one will. Alex, roaring with delight and satisfaction, hoisting the trophy high above his head in triumph. Sasha, half a step behind, waiting to swoop in and stabilize should Alex’s knee give out on him.

They yell into each other’s faces as Alex hands it to his teammate, friend, lover. _Click._ Nicke snaps away, shot after shot of gleaming metal and ecstatic expressions, of bloodied hands and sweat-matted hair, of cheap champagne-drenched boys celebrating the most elusive of wins. A _championship._

Nicke documents the celebration, and the post-celebration, boys exhausted from the game and the inevitable drinking, herded back onto the team bus for the long drive home the next morning, hungover and still beaming. _Click._ Mike, slumped over the arm of his seat, sunglasses barely hanging on, ballcap shoved over greasy hair. _Click._ Sasha and Alex curled together near the front, Sasha’s legs in Alex’s lap, back to the window, trophy cradled between them. _Click._ Sasha’s sleepy smile transforming into a soft welcome when the shutter of Nicke’s camera wakes him from his doze. _Click._ Nicke’s fingers, Alex’s calloused hand pulling him forward by the wrist, pressed to gleaming metal. _Click._

 

* * *

 

Their first actual, grownup house is a four-bedroom, too big at first for three barely-grown men, even with the clutter of two previous apartments between them. They grow into it—Alex steadily furnishing the basement entertainment space and bar from paycheck to paycheck; Sasha commandeering the kitchen when it becomes clear than neither Nicke nor Alex know the first thing about cooking; Nicke claiming one of the unused bedrooms as his office and studio.

The back patio takes years for them to get it how they want—Alex’s prized grill sits at the edge; Sasha’s lounge chairs positioned to greet the sun during the day, and the shade of the house’s shadow by night; Nicke insists on a proper patio table and chairs for dinners outside. None of them have the drive to take care of a pool, but every so often the Russians will soak in the hot tub they’d found in year three. Nicke hardly minds the view, although he has to throw in the towel earlier than either of them, skin flushed pink from the heat. _Click._

Nicke’s favorite moments to capture are quiet. Sasha poring over a new recipe, studiously translating English into his loopy Cyrillic. _Click._ Nicke combing his fingers through Alex’s riotous bedhead, pressing a kiss to his temple. _Click._ Sasha, curled up reading in the bay window with the rain pouring down outside. _Click._ Alex studying late into the night, tongue poking out between his lips, forehead wrinkled in concentration. His pen taps at his bottom lip. _Click._  

 

* * *

 

Alex gets the news halfway through the summer, as they’re packing for the move to Raleigh. He answers the phone in excited Russian, face lighting up and then just as quickly falling. He scrambles for his computer.

Sasha freezes in place, just as Nicke’s managed to translate some of what Alex is saying. That’s when Nicke knows it’s bad. The two of them exchange a look; Sasha jerks his head to the door.

“His papa is sick,” Sasha says quietly, when they’ve gotten back to the bedroom he shares with Alex.

“Shit,” Nicke breathes. “Cancer?”

Sasha shakes his head. “They don’t know.” But it’s not good, if Tatyana is calling Alex home to Russia.

Nicke lets out a slow breath. “Okay. Find out when his flight leaves, and I’ll start packing.”

Sasha kisses Nicke softly, in thanks, maybe, and leaves to go to Alex. Nicke sits on the bed and stares at the open door blankly. Alex loves his parents so much. To lose one … Nicke can’t even imagine.

So he doesn’t. Nicke puts the thought out of his mind and digs out Alex’s suitcase from the back of the closet. He has to paw through both dressers to find the clothes Alex will want to wear in Russia, but somehow manages to get it all into the bag.

Nicke’s contemplating the jumble of travel-sized toiletries when Alex’s arms wrap around him from behind.

Alex presses a kiss to Nicke’s hair, and squeezes him tight. “I love you,” Alex says quietly.

Nicke turns around, gets his arms around Alex’s back to return the hug. “I know,” he says. “But your parents need you now.”

“I’ll come back when Papa is better,” Alex promises. Nicke closes his eyes. He tucks his nose into Alex’s neck and soaks up this moment. He knows as well as Alex does that there’s a chance Papa Ovechkin _won’t_ make a full recovery, and there’s no way Alex will leave his mother on her own in Russia. Not with Mikhail pursuing his own career in D.C.

“I love you,” Nicke says into Alex’s collar. “Give your parents our love, and tell them we’ll figure out a time to visit when your papa is better.”

 

* * *

 

For as much as Alex loves hockey, there’s no denying that love of the game isn’t enough to pay the bills. Not on the pittance the men’s league pays. So Alex springboards into coaching, throwing himself into building his team from intimidated kids to confident players.

Sasha and Nicke join him on the ice for a game of keepaway after the first practice, checking each other (gently) into the boards as Alex throws his head back and laughs. _Click._ Alex is a powerhouse on the ice, willing to work extra hours one-on-one with unsteady skaters, showing them careful crossovers and stick tricks, flipping the puck high in the air, around the back, landing unerringly on the blade of his stick. A wicked wrister into the net; a slapshot from center ice; a one-timer from “the office.” _Click._  

Sasha and Nicke attend home games, sit in the mostly-empty stands on cold bleachers beneath a blanket in team colors. Alex stands behind the bench in a suit, silvering hair bright against the dark fabric. Before each game, as the anthem plays, Alex lifts his chain with its two rings to his lips. A promise. _Click._

 

* * *

 

It’s Sasha who kisses Nicke first. Sasha, who leans in and pauses, searching Nicke’s eyes for something, eyes dropping to Nicke’s lips and then back up to his eyes, before brushing his lips over Nicke’s mouth.

Nicke’s frozen to the spot, sitting between them on Sasha’s creaky futon watching a movie Nicke never caught the title of. He hears Alex’s sharp inhale on his other side, feels Sasha’s lips press to his and then begin to withdraw ... and then his brain kicks in, his hands come up and fist in Sasha’s shirt, hauling Sasha back in.

Sasha’s hand is warm where it settles low on Nicke’s hip. He closes his eyes when he kisses—Nicke’s known that from watching the two of them trade kisses—but it’s different when Sasha’s kissing _Nicke._ When _Nicke’s_ close enough to count the freckles dotting Sasha’s nose, and slide a hand through Sasha’s mullet to the longer strands at his nape.

Sasha releases Nicke with a soft sound, and Nicke feels rather than sees Alex’s hand cup his chin and turn his head. “Yes?” Alex checks.

“Yes,” Nicke says firmly. “Please,” he adds.

Alex kisses differently than Sasha, not in a way that Nicke can definitively put a finger on, but Nicke can tell who he’s kissing even with his eyes shut. His aren’t, though. He can see the sweep of Alex’s eyelashes, feel the ridge of his nose against Nicke’s cheek, the soft touch of Alex’s tongue to Nicke’s lips.

Nicke sighs into the kiss, Sasha’s hand still low on his hip, turned halfway ‘round between them. His back protests; Nicke ignores it in favor of pushing into Alex’s space even more.

 

Nicke’s lips are buzzing, his cheeks flushed, his hair likely a complete disaster, by the time he leaves their apartment that night. Sasha and Alex crowd him at the door, hands lingering on Nicke’s shoulders, arms, fingers. Nicke ducks into the hallway, glad it’s completely deserted. He’s sure no one would mistake his appearance for anything other than what it … what it is.

In the privacy of his own dorm room, Mike dead to the world and snoring in the bed above him, Nicke brings a hand to his lips and smiles.

 

* * *

 

Sasha and Alex bicker over everything and anything. Nicke stands in the shade on the porch and photographs them for five entire minutes as they yell at each other in Russian over the length of the couch, attempting the squeeze it through the door. When it doesn’t budge, and Alex’s arms start to tremble, Nicke sets his camera aside and walks over.

“Turn it to 45-degree angle,” he instructs, bracing the back as they obey. The couch moves, and Sasha backs up in a hurry. Nicke suppresses a laugh and goes to fetch the coffee table out of the moving truck.

Nicke gets the coffee table inside, goes to look for his lovers. He follows the low stream of Russian upstairs to the master bedroom, where Sasha’s carefully measuring the doorway. Alex is shamelessly ogling Sasha’s ass. _Click._

“Our bed should fit,” Sasha says. Nicke wants to smooth away the wrinkle at his forehead. So he does.

“I’ll get the frame, you get the mattress?” Nicke offers. Sasha crooks a smile at him, sunlight streaming into the room behind him. Nicke’s hit with a wave of fondness. He can see the life ahead of them in this house.

 

Living together has its downsides. For every morning spent curled together in their big bed, there’s a missed communication, a bad day at work, a tiny argument that spirals into a yelling match. There’s tempers flaring and loaded silences. There are days when they can barely speak to each other, when they tiptoe around like walking on eggshells.

But there’s joy, too. Nicke’s camera is full of it.

There’s Nicke and Sasha, curled up together to watch Alex’s kids play in any number of cities across the nation, Sasha’s head in Nicke’s lap, Nicke’s fingers combing through the mullet Nicke refuses to let Sasha cut. Sasha angles his phone up, catches the corner of Nicke’s smile.

Nicke and Alex cheer (Nicke confiscated Alex’s airhorn before they even left the house) as Sasha walks across the stage at graduation from his master’s program, smiling until his eyes crease shut in nearly every photo Nicke tries to take.

The bar breaks the sound barrier when the horn sounds and the Red Wings swarm Szabados, helmets flying. Sasha ends up pinned between Nicke and Alex, the three of them sporting wide, exultant smiles and Red Wings jerseys while Amanda Kessel hoists the Stanley Cup for the first time.

A photo of Nicke awkwardly holding the certificate in one hand and shaking hands with his editor with the other after submitting and winning national recognition for his coverage of a late-night explosion that shakes downtown ends up splashed across the front page. Sasha and Alex contribute terribly-angled selfies squishing Nicke between them, mouth open mid-protest.

There’s Sasha, lying perfectly still as Alex and Nicke’s entwined signatures are inked into his skin, permanent and as binding as any wedding ring, Alex’s hand gripped tightly in his. Brooks flashes a thumbs-up to the camera, and Nicke just about dies laughing when Alex holds up a pair of tiny Canadian-flag earrings and strikes a pose.

Nicke captures the wonder on Alex’s face when he unwraps a tiny blue collar their fifth New Year’s together, and Sasha deposits the puppy in his lap moments later. Alex nearly cries as the puppy wiggles to cover his face with kisses, big hands nearly dwarfing its small body.

 

* * *

 

Nicke runs his fingers over the cover of the album, the edges worn and corners soft. He opens the book to the next empty page, carefully slotting in the next batch of photos. There’s plenty of pages left to fill, and a lifetime in which to do so.


End file.
